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40 Imperials, an Old Receipt, and a Fastheld Donor Card
'Southwatch Bluff - ' ---- :It is the Fourth hour by the Shadow on Riverstretch. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze. Misty white fog roils across the landscape. ---- Karell Mikin appears to be strolling idly, gloved hands placed behind his back as he slowly makes his way westwards along one of the outer walkways around Southwatch. He pauses and narrows his eyes, squinting at the dark shadow of the Aegis off in the distance. It's a quiet sort of an afternoon, the sun sunk well past its zenith, casting the shadows long across cobbles and streets. The scent of the sea is thick and oppressive on air already smothered with rolling mists, the trademark of a late-summer evening with only cool air to show for all its sun. The ring of horseshoes on cobbles makes a constant clamor, and merchants hawk their wares from the sides of the streets. Passersby bring with them the lilt of conversation to intermingle with gulls flying back and forth above the looming wall of the Aegis, whose shadow darkens the immediate vicinity at its base. Near the Valoria, a small group of traveling performers play a song on a variety of instruments, dancers in front, and some sort of fool or jester staggering back and forth among the crowd with a handful of juggling balls. Karell, with only slightly piqued interest, moved towards the entertainers casually. Bright green eyes watch the dancing jester and the Lord seems to decide he is not amused by the entire display, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head in dismissal. He turns away, trying to enjoy the music alone with what views the area offers. The jester makes a surprisingly graceful twirl, fingers moving dexterously to catch the balls, twirl them, throw them up again in a dazzling display of colour. Tiny bells decorating his costume ring out a high, delicate song that Karell may hear growing louder as the jester moves closer to the nobleman. On purpose? Well, who can say? Again, Karell turns to regard the jester. This time, the movement towards him merely spurs the noble to take a few steps in the opposite direction. Nothing unsubtle, just keeping his legs warm. A grin splits the jester's face as he nears Karell, pausing barely a couple of feet distant from the nobleman to demonstrate a particularly impressive feat of juggling--when one of the dancers whirls past him. Limbs strike out, somewhere, and the jester pitches forwards towards the nobleman, balls flying in all directions. There are a couple of startled gasps from the crowd, a couple of hands reaching out to steady jester and nobleman both. If Karell doesn't move--and quickly--the juggler is going to bowl straight into him. Karell looks momentarily shocked, eyes widening in surprise as the juggler falls towards him. In reaction, the nobleman steels his position and throws a long arm back towards the juggler, shoving him rather uncaringly in the opposite direction. "Terrible!" he shouts, "Get back, you!" The juggler seizes onto the flung arm--instinct?--in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. Karell may notice a brief tug on his clothing as the man tries to steady himself, and then the juggler falls back, landing hard on the cobblestones, his fellow dancer above him to offer a hand back to his feet. Clambering awkwardly upright again, the jester bows very low--low enough that the ends of his cap brush the pavement--mumbling, "I'm very sorry, M'lord. Very, very, sorry. Very clumsy. Entirely my fault. A disgrace." As he speaks, one hand slips into the pocket of his costume... "I do not like jesters." Karell says rather flatly, looking himself down to make sure none of his clothes have been frayed or torn. He eyes the other man, taking a step back so he does not have to crane his neck to look down at him. None of the Valoria's clothing is frayed or torn... though one pocket may be seen to be slightly rumpled around the edge. The jester slips his hand out of his pocket again, clasping it with the other in front of him and bowing again--even deeper, if that's at all possible. (Jingle jingle jingle, go the bells...) "Quite understandable, M'lord. Why, I don't think I'd like jesters myself if one such as I was your standard for judging the lot of us." "Let me get a look at you." Karell says with a growl, sounding somewhat frustrated, "Pull that empty head of yours up, boy." "Yes, M'lord. Of course, M'lord." The jester straightens up, folding both hands together in front of him, fingers interlaced amongst each other. At a good look, he may appear to be about seventeen--certainly no older, perhaps even a little younger--and almost painfully thin, with a slim, athletic sort of build and entirely too many bones showing through sickly-pale skin. Wide, green-brown eyes seem entirely too large for his face, and shocks of ill-kempt hair poke out from beneath that ridiculous jester's hat. His expression is nothing but remorseful and humble. "What makes a boy like you want to play the fool, eh?" Karell continues, a little riled up it seems, "Why aren't you in a respectable trade? You've not got a look to you, sure there would be someone who would apprentice a lad like yourself. Honestly, by the light." "..but it isn't too late, now, is it?" Karell mutters, "Really, boy, you may well as be a thief, in my eyes. Go home." "A th-thief, M-M'lord?" the boy stammers. He seems downright horrified by the idea. "N-not me, n-never! I am j-just a poor j-j-jester..." He almost seems on the brink of tears, and directs his gaze downwards, stepping back a couple paces. Even less impressed by this turn of events, Karell rolls his eyes, "You are far too old for such displays," he chides, "Stop making a scene." The boy's eyes are instantly dry--too instantly? Could be. Whatever the case, excellent acting skills or no, he doesn't look up from the ground. "Yes, M'lord," he murmurs. For a moment, Karell waits there, his bright eyes dulled by a thoughtful frown. It is a moment's thought, and then it is gone, the noble shaking his head and putting his gloved hands half into his pocket, perhaps out of some subconscious instinct. He turns, making his way away from the boy with a sour muttering. And the boy tugs the cap back onto his head, letting the faintest flicker of a smile slip across his features as he turns from the nobleman and makes his way back to the other performers. ---- Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs